To Dream of Dead Men
by whattheDalek
Summary: AU TGG. While Sherlock's obsession with Moriarty occupies his every waking thought, John struggles with the reappearance of a past best left forgotten. No slash.


**Hello, all! Although I've always considered myself to be more of a reader than a writer, I've decided to give this publishing thing a shot. Of course, it's with one of my favorite fandoms: BBC Sherlock. Unfortunately, updates will be a bit sporadic, but I'll try my best to update in a somewhat timely manner. There will be about four or five chapters.**

**Summary: **AU TGG. While Sherlock's obsession with Moriarty occupies his every waking thought, John struggles with the reappearance of a past best left forgotten. No slash.

**Warnings:** Some swearing, implied torture, no pairings, general creepiness, Moriarty.

**Disclaimer:** If you recognize it, I don't own it. And wishing has never gotten me anywhere.

**This little treat has been waiting on my hard drive since 2012. I found it while clearing out things I didn't need, and decided, what the hell. So, enjoy!**

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><p>To Dream of Dead Men<p>

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

A flash of red and searing black winds rushed at John's face, hot and sticky from the sun of Afghanistan as dusty fingers left a trail on his cheeks. Normally, John would have called the browning desert beautiful, with its endless rolls of sand and the grit that somehow made its presence known in his mouth when John had been especially careful to keep his lips firmly zipped against the raging winds.

Today, however, the beauty of the bright blue sky and the yellow rays of sunshine glimmering along the thin shadows the sand was lost on John Watson, for the fresh air had gone like the wisps of a smoke cloud, a strike of lightening strapping the dark, a scene change in a poorly edited film. The warm air had turned stale and muggy, stained with a horrid taste that would have sent John gagging—had he not been used to the smell. Something crusted was dried to his face, and the darkness—oh God, the darkness—would have left a blind man afraid.

And there was a terrified voice in his ear, cracking along odd syllables in strain and panic: _"Oh, Jesus—Doc! Doc, wake up Doc! Open your eyes—oh, shit—come on, Doc!"_

John knew that voice; but it was impossible for him to have heard it. It had been at least three years, and as confusion battled in his mind, pain in the form of inescapable contained heat brushed against his skin, teasing him, making him gasp in fear and expectation—he mustn't scream, he mustn't scream, he mustn't—

_"__Scream for me, Johnny."_

John Watson opened his eyes. He was no longer sitting in the chair, tied mercilessly to the back, but standing on his own two feet. The horrid atmosphere of certain death and heat had fragmented off as a part of John's imagination, and he then realized: he had been _dreaming_. He had been asleep, safe at Baker Street, reliving an old memory he had all but forgotten (or had tried to, but the scars still left their traces) until today.

Once he came to his senses, John let out a shuddering breath, looking down at his heavily shaking hands, the evidence of suppressed adrenaline before his very eyes. They were useless until they stopped their trembling, so John slowly clenched them into tight fists and let them fall to his sides. His chest heaved and John soon realized his hands weren't the only thing shaking, for in fact his entire body felt spent as if he had ran a marathon. Chill clung onto his abdomen and his lower back, and John noted with surprise that he had sweated through his jumper. The straggled ends of his hair (which needed a nice trim) stuck to the back of his neck.

That flat was quiet—too quiet. It was unnerving and John had to look up, still breathing heavily from the terror his vivid memories had caused, and he froze, holding his breath in surprise.

It seemed he had not been alone when he woke from his nightmare, as he had first expected. Sherlock, Lestrade, and Sergeant Donovan were all watching him, wide-eyed, the former with a half-curious, half-analytical twinge to it. Three sets of eyes were glued to John as if he were an interesting, difficult to understand piece of modern art, but at least Lestrade had the grace to look slightly ashamed at this behavior as well as concerned for John's well-being. Highly displeased with this outcome, John scowled.

"I'm not some side show," John growled, embarrassed and mentally berating himself for choosing to take a nap on the couch in his and Sherlock's living room (but, to be fair, he hadn't known they'd have company). Sherlock had just solved a case, with John dutifully by his side and loving every minute of the action-packed adventure they led on, catching a serial killer. However, it had taken them the better part of four days, and John had been so sleep-deprived he had fallen asleep on the nearest bed-shaped thing he could find, which happened to be the couch at the back end of the room against the brown and white fleur-de-lis wallpaper. Sherlock may have said something about Lestrade having another case for them right away, but John may or may not have thrown his cell phone at his friend in response.

Why Lestrade and Donovan were in their flat now made no sense whatsoever to him, and John decided, while he still had some dignity in tact; that he was going to leave before getting involved in affairs he had missed whilst trapped underground in Afghanistan (or having his dreams dissected by a certain consulting detective). So after his initial sentence, John turned on his heel and made his way to the stairs leading up to his bedroom, where his bed waited impatiently for him to fall headfirst into its springy comfort.

That had been the plan, at least. John had forgotten about his bum leg, which had chosen that time to flare up. The unexpected pain scorched from the very tips of his toes to mid-thigh, and John's knee buckled underneath his weight. Catching himself on the doorframe, John breathed in deeply… once… twice… swearing colorfully under his breath as humiliation crept along his spine. He didn't think he'd ever been so humiliated in his life.

"You alright, John?" Lestrade asked.

John made no notice he heard.

"Don't take it personally, Detective Inspector," Sherlock's deep voice grated from behind John. "He's been like this since we got home."

His left hand, though shaking worse than his right, tightened so his knuckles shown white through his otherwise flushed skin. Seething, John turned around, his face feeling hardened into one of a vengeful soldier (he ignored Donovan's gasp of surprise and Lestrade's quickly paling features), having a very strong desire to fight his best friend when Sherlock had shocked him out of it successfully.

"Who is Joey?" Sherlock asked, his deep voice expressionless except a hint of that innocent curiosity often heard in the voice of a child.

John's anger slipped away like hot water dripping from his shoulders. His mouth dried, and he licked his lips. He wasn't sure whether or not sand was still caked on his lips, and the sand gritting the sensitive muscle under his tongue. "What?" Had he heard Sherlock correctly? John hoped he hadn't. Classified, that, and in front of two civilians to boot.

Sherlock Holmes's expression did not change from its bland, bored tone, though there was some exasperation hidden in his piercing gray eyes as having to repeat himself. "Joey." Sherlock said this name slowly and clearly as if expecting it to trek its way through John's sleep muddled mind and imprint itself there. "In your sleep, you kept telling him to 'shut up.' Who is he?"

Fear unsteadily rushed through John's core. His throat suddenly thick, John swallowed and turned his gaze to Lestrade and Donovan, who were watching the two friends with undisguised interest. "I apologize for my behavior," John said, "it was uncalled for."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed knowingly, but thankfully didn't say anything.

Donovan nodded, her tight curls bouncing with the motion, as Lestrade shrugged, "we all have bad days."

_Don't I know it_, John thought. Believing the comment would drag up more unwanted questions, John asked, "What are you two doing here, anyway?"

Lestrade blinked at the sudden change in conversation, but recovered quickly and shifted his weight. "Sherlock had taken evidence from the crime scene and we sort of need it back."

"Sort of?" Donovan said with a hint of outrage, her hands on her hips as she glared at the Detective Inspector, but she hadn't been noticed.

"Yes," Sherlock continued condescendingly, "and they broke into our flat without the slightest idea about privacy."

John stared at his friend. Sherlock Holmes, teach someone about privacy? It was a ridiculous, bordering on hilarious, notion that the man who used his spare time hacking into John's lap top to read his emails said a thing like that.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "We have a search warrant."

"How reassuring."

"Sherlock," John groaned and ran a hand through his graying blonde hair, which had been mussed up from sleep. He was too tired and emotionally worn to deal with his childlike flat mate. He glanced over at his friend and jumped as he recognized Sherlock's penetrating stare, his eyes darting from John's trembling hands to the sure to be deeper stress lines on his forehead.

After a second more, Sherlock straightened and his deductions had ceased, looking up at John with an unreadable emotion, his hands pressed to his lips in an almost praying position, though John knew he was doing anything but.

"What set it off?" Sherlock asked quietly, and Lestrade and Donovan looked over to him in surprise.

"Set what off, Sherlock?" John muttered, running a hand down his face. Sherlock needed to be more specific sometimes. His fingers caught on the light stubble poking through and the exaggerated bags under his eyes.

"The memory, John, your Post Traumatic dreams."

John eyed his friend carefully, suspecting foul play. Was Sherlock asking this as a point of reference for future experiments (in which John really hoped not) or was he, dare John say it? Concerned? But there was nothing John could detect from Sherlock's blank face other than a glimmer of something—not interest per say—at the back of his sharp eyes.

"It was the bloody cellar," John said finally, turning around and limping to the stairs, missing the look on Sherlock's face entirely as he focused all his energy on getting to bed. His leg burned and threatened to collapse, but John powered on, wishing for some sodding privacy and perhaps another chance at sleep.

Xx-{X}-xX

Sherlock watched his flat mate leave the living room. John limped heavily and grasped at the wall with a tense hand as he climbed the stairs with staggering, uneven thumps (this was… baffling… Sherlock thought he had fixed John's psychosomatic limp, but it looks as if their recent activities had caused a relapse). Sherlock leaned back in his usual chair, his fingertips melded together as he recalled the cellar he and John had been trapped in for over fourteen hours.

The cellar had been small and gray, the floor hard and unforgiving, cold to the touch. Windows did not exist in this room, and had there not been a dim light bulb hanging above their heads by a draw string, there would have been nothing to see but pitch darkness. Grime discolored the walls and dust collected in the corners like shadows. Dead, brittle insect carcasses scattered the otherwise spotless floor. Cobwebs strung from the ceiling, and Sherlock remembered with slight amusement that despite John's lack of height, he kept complaining about running into them, his face scrunched in discomfort as he waved his arms in front of him, unsuccessfully tearing the barely visible silken threads from the air. The air had been terribly dry and the reception unfortunately non-existent. And the boredom had been nearly unbearable. It was fortunate the killer had been prime-suspect and was apprehended almost ten hours after their disappearance. It was also fortunate the killer had been courteous enough to let Scotland Yard know of his latest victims, who (in his exact words) 'may or may not be starving to death.' Lestrade had been annoying once he found them, looking ruffled-haired and strangely relieved.

Unimportant. Delete. John had said the trigger for his nightmares had been _the bloody cellar._ Clearly an exaggeration or a term of displeasure, for there had not been any blood in the cellar for what John could see. Of course, Sherlock had noticed the tell-tale dried brown, nearly miniscule dots by the door and the faint scent of lemon (hidden by the musk of the cellar)—the killer liked a clean floor and would clean up after his spills almost immediately. Regrettably, the man had not used his cellar for his victims in a while, so most of the data about the last visitor to the man's basement had gone cold. It caused for irritation to well up within Sherlock to have this source of entertainment ripped from him.

But it was elementary, really, considering how pressed the killer's shirts and trousers were, starched and free from old food stains (extremely self-conscious, a small case of OCD, perhaps, for the man had an almost unhealthy obsession with being clean). His hands were raw from constant scrubbing, and Sherlock found it unusual the man kept hand sanitizer in his pocket—most men wouldn't have bothered.

Again, not important to solving what was wrong with John. _It was the bloody cellar_, John had sighed in defeat, turning around and not bothering to enlighten Sherlock with the sure to be fascinating details. His sentence implied John had been held captive before (more than once? He had sounded almost _accepting_ of this occurrence… then again, John had been kidnapped by the Black Lotus last month… but John hadn't been traumatized from that experience, and John _specifically _mentioned it had been the cellar… and yet, the only discomfort John had shown was with the spider webs…).

While he thought about this, something strange bubbled unpleasantly within his stomach. What was this development? Sherlock disliked it immediately, barely recognizing it as _sentiment_ (despicable. Dull). He discarded the feeling, as it was fairly distracting and might have been related to anger, but he wasn't quite sure.

"What did he mean by that, Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice broke Sherlock's concentration, and Sherlock opened his eyes, annoyed. He didn't want to have to deal with the Detective Inspector and that woman that liked to call herself a professional. Such a thought made him want to sneer.

Sherlock glared at the graying Detective Inspector, not even bothering to lay eyes on Sergeant Donovan. "Don't you have somewhere to be, Inspector?" Sherlock asked scornfully, injecting venom in his voice so Lestrade would be absolutely _sure_ he was no longer welcome in his flat.

Lestrade raised a silver eyebrow. Ah, perhaps his venom was interpreted as something else. No matter…

"Sherlock," Lestrade said in a tired, almost scandalized tone. The Inspector hated it when Sherlock kept him in the dark, which Sherlock reveled in. A slightly shaking hand (Too much coffee? Ah… the plan to quit smoking finally seeming a bad idea, Inspector? Tell me about it) dragged itself down Lestrade's face (bags underneath eyes like purple bruises indicated interrupted sleep cycle… Lestrade, three hours should be enough. Sherlock certainly got by with less).

"I do believe it's none of your business," Sherlock sighed with impatience, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. His curls crushed against the back of his cranium where his head met the slightly giving couch. He needed more data, and he couldn't do so unless Lestrade and Donovan were gone; John would not want an audience, and though Sherlock somewhat trusted Lestrade's discretion, Donovan would have spouted John's oh-so-interesting (and possibly traumatic) past to all she met (to this, John would not be pleased). "Leave," he bit out, settling his elbows on the arm rests and settling into a long night of thinking.

There was a hesitant silence before Donovan huffed and stalked out of the room (finally), leaving behind a chilled draft and the lingering of a floral perfume. It tickled in his nostrils and Sherlock wrinkled his nose a bit, not for the first time cursing his hypersensitivity to everything.

The fine hairs on his arms rose slightly and Sherlock noted with irritation that Lestrade _still _hadn't left yet. Hadn't he been clear when he told them to leave? Donovan surely got the message, and seeing as Lestrade was less of an idiot than the rest of his colleagues, there was no other logical reason to why he was there, staring at Sherlock.

Seconds passed, and Sherlock opened his eyes, now glowering with hardened intensity at Lestrade. The Detective Inspector flinched back minutely, but stood his ground, scuffing his feet nervously on the faded red rug, hands linked behind his back, his eyes turned to the ground. Lestrade looked up again only to stare determinedly into Sherlock's eyes.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Lestrade reprimanded, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and settled for fixing his stare on his newly created smiley face, which grinned wickedly back at him. Lestrade sighed once and adopted a subdued tone, "Is John alright?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock had been visiting the cellar he and John had shared not even twenty-four hours ago—even the spidery tendrils of the cellar's chill clung to his arms and he fought the urge to shake it off. His flat was warm enough; he would heat up on his own time.

"Is John alright?" Lestrade repeated, his eyebrows furrowing in concern.

"Yes," Sherlock lied, "He's fine."

Both of Lestrade's eyebrows rose this time, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize Lestrade was exasperated, disbelieving.

Annoyed, Sherlock sighed and pushed himself straight in his chair. "If I give you an observation, will you make your own deduction and get out of my flat?"

Lestrade nodded, and Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Obviously you must know John is an ex-army doctor, invalidated from the army because of his shoulder and the inopportune consequences that arrived with it," Sherlock said in one breath, his voice low as he plucked each word from his whirring mind that was running too quickly for his speech. Lestrade nodded in confirmation even as Sherlock continued into his next string, "One of these consequences are his Post-Traumatic nightmares of his time in Afghanistan, however, in all the nights I had observed his sleep patterns," (here Lestrade rose another eyebrow, but Sherlock had no patience at the moment for the Inspector's completely wrong deductions) "he has never been frightened afterwards, not especially like that, and not bad enough to cause the return of his limp," (he turned to wholly face Lestrade, lifting his chin and meeting his eyes) "What you must understand is that John is not a man who is easily frightened, and for him to have entirely lost his head—it would have been worse than he is used to. I have _never _heard John sound like that."

Unbidden, the recent memory of John's stocky form, tense underneath the fleece blanket, quite still (much different from the thrashing and cursing), his lips pressed into a hard line other than to utter broken whispers (_"Shut up, Joey. I said shut_ up, _you stupid kid!"_), the lines on his forehead creasing to make river-like divots in his skin. Occasionally, John would tremble and moan, his fingers of his left hand digging into his right side. Sherlock fractionally shifted his eyes to rid of the image (somehow, it was disturbing, and Sherlock had no idea why). Lestrade had not noticed his pause, as Sherlock's expression did not change and his monologue did not stop other than a quick breath of air.

"Conclusion: these nightmares were a part of a completely different experience than what he usually dreams of. The real mystery, Inspector, is what they were about and what had brought seemingly buried memories to the surface." Sherlock carefully scanned Lestrade's face, waiting for a sharp inhale, a widening of eyes as understanding came, but Sherlock was sorely disappointed, as per usual.

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled slowly. "He said something about a cellar…" he started, looking a bit lost.

"Yes." (What does that tell you, Inspector? It's not that much of a leap.)

Lestrade's brow creased, his hairline climbing lower at the motion, and after a moment, he released the expression and shook his head. Obviously, he had not made a connection. Sherlock sighed. Typical.

"I'm surprised Sergeant Donovan hadn't left without you, Inspector," Sherlock stated, leaning back in his chair once more and closing his eyes. Perhaps this would get rid of Lestrade.

Sherlock nearly smirked when Lestrade cursed and ran from the room, the swish of his coat cutting through the otherwise silent air of the flat. Lestrade's heavy, hurried steps blundered down his short span of stairs, and Sherlock considered chasing after the man to tell him to quiet; he might wake John (this he doubted, however, and John looked extremely tired and as if he would sleep for at least five more hours). He waited until he heard the slam of his front door before letting out a small grin. The silence in the flat settled around him like a soft cloud, blanketing his senses, and it was utterly marvelous. He was glad he was alone. Finally.

It was only a few hours of this brilliant quiet until he decided he couldn't figure out John's exact problem (how irritating… he would have to wait to ask the man), so he pushed himself from his chair, savoring the wonderful feeling of his muscles stretched and pulled as blood flowed into his stiffened legs. He walked to window to peer out into its depths. Not a star in the sky as rain drizzled lightly over the blacktop, creating a somewhat reflective plane in which shadows and yellowed headlights bled blurrily over the surface. Strangely enough, there weren't any people walking past for him to deduce (it must be that early time in the morning, then. Odd), and the peacefulness of the quiet night disgusted him. It was incredibly _boring_—and though he had solved the crime Lestrade offered this morning (he smirked. Lestrade would be peeved he had withheld information again), he found himself desiring another. Criminals just weren't as creative as they used to be.

Sherlock sighed dismally and turned away from the window when something caught his eye. Ah, it was the neon yellow smiley face he had spray painted on the wall (_"I'm putting this on your rent, young man!")_, and he grinned back at it. It was in this moment when his windows blasted in, glass shredding through the thin beige curtains and shimmering through the air as if it were glorified dust. Hot waves threaded through the assault, throwing Sherlock to the ground as unconsciousness swirled at the edges of his mind. The whining of a car alarm was the last thing he observed before the darkness swallowed him whole.

Xx-{X}-xX

Mycroft Holmes sat in his chair, a glass of brandy on the side table, the crystal container stoppered and glittering dully in the limelight of the fireplace, which warmed Mycroft's feet as he stretched them towards the iron gate. The joints in his knees cracked and he leaned back in his chair, relishing the comfort as his sunk in, the soft odor of old leather mixing in with the gentle aroma of the musty firewood as it burned under a yellow-orange flame. For a moment, Mycroft watched the fire lick the underside of the brick, slowly blackening it, before grasping his drink and throwing it back, grimacing against the burn in his throat. At once, the tension built up in his shoulders released and he lay back once more, closing his eyes.

It had been a rather stressful week for Mycroft Holmes, especially since Andrew West turned up dead at the side of a railroad track (not a suicide, obviously, most likely murder, especially since a copy of the Bruce-Partington program had disappeared. It wasn't much of a leap to connect one to the other), head particularly bashed up but not enough blood on the rails for him to have personally met with the train. Mycroft rubbed his temples, his fingers pressing hard enough to stave away the coming headache.

Of course, he could always investigate himself, but he didn't particularly feel like moving at the moment, especially since he was so warm and relaxed… he then smirked, closing his eyes. That's what he had a little brother for—Sherlock could do this for him. Sherlock had the same deduction skills—Mycroft saw to it personally, for he was the one to raise the little terror, after all—and he had a love for (ugh) legwork.

Certainly, his brother would be difficult to persuade, hating the very notion of being a pawn for the government to use… but this undoubtedly was a case Sherlock wouldn't refuse. An unexplained murder, tantalizing government secrets (which would unmercifully poke at his brother's undying thirst for knowledge), all tied up in a place young Mr. West had no reason to be… well, this would be a Christmas come early for Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft's phone vibrated within his inner pocket, startling him somewhat and causing him to open his eyes in part-alarm. Only a few embers burned dully through the cracks of the otherwise black firewood, whitish particles of wood breaking off and collecting with the ash piled underneath the glowing cinders—the flame had long gone, but heat still soaked through the soles of his expensive shoes (at least two hours gone, then). The shadows had shifted in the otherwise dark room, the bookcases and other armchairs striking intimidating figures in the night. Mycroft frowned; he hadn't even noticed he had fallen asleep.

The phone buzzed against his chest again, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, momentarily peeved that such an unremarkable thing had startled him (not that he'd admit it). He fished it out of his breast pocket and blinked as the screen blinded him before he put it up to his ear.

"Yes," he said into the phone, his voice carefully clear of all traces of sleep. It would not do to even _sound _exhausted in his line of work.

"_There has been an explosion on Baker Street, Mr. Holmes," _a deep, calm voice (Agent Uriah Smith, head of his Baker Street night watch) reported. Mycroft felt his heart pause momentarily before picking up again as the irritating whine of police sirens echoed distantly through the otherwise crystal clear reception. "_It was relatively small—only the size of two flat complexes—and right across from 221B. No casualties reported so far, sir, but it seems the blast has knocked nearby civilians unconscious."_

Mycroft released the breath he had been holding and snapped, "Touch nothing. No one enters 221B until I get there. Be sure Lestrade and his team are the investigators—this is too close for it to be entirely coincidental."

_"__Yes, sir,"_ Smith said, and after that, Mycroft ended the call and strode from the room, barely pausing to pick up his trusty umbrella on the way.

Once his car rolled to a stop at Baker Street, he instantly observed that the street was entirely devoid of cars and people, the rush of police sirens echoing in the distance (flashes of light and the ricochet of the noise indicated the police were merely five minutes away… hmm… he may have to give Harvey a raise for getting him there ahead of time). He looked to his left and paused momentarily to assess the remarkable scene: the bomb had torn through two floors of a building, the face ripped completely off and strewn haphazardly over the otherwise empty street. Rubble and destroyed bricks dusted the street and floated as motes in the air, reflecting off the bright beams of the remaining streetlamps lighting the surprisingly unbroken road. Nearly every window on the surrounding buildings had been blasted through, and he noted, with the smallest of hidden pangs, so it had on Sherlock and John's flat. Glass glimmered and crunched merrily underneath Mycroft's pace, and in his opinion, the street was far too silent. Understandably, it was three in the morning on a Monday night, and most would beg to go to bed (so he's heard)—but wouldn't a semi-large explosion such as this catch the fleeting eye of the bystander?

He smiled in grim satisfaction when he heard a few horrified screams, muffled heavily by the thick walls of their homes. There they were, the screams of terror… only a bit off schedule, but Smith had said the civilians were, for the most part, blasted unconscious. No doubt a few of them were getting the police online.

As he walked purposefully to the unexpectedly untouched door of 221B (if not a bit dusty), Smith came into step with him, walking curtly and with matched, even strides. His impassive face was stern as usual, and his dulled eyes were sharpened with the adrenaline and excitement of the night. "Sir," he said as they casually stepped over a dog-sized portion of the opposite wall, "I alerted the most discreet clean-up crew for your brother's flat and Dr. Hamilton. Both should arrive within the next two minutes…" he checked his watched and amended, "one minute, fifty-four seconds, sir."

Mycroft nodded without looking at Smith; the man had always been on top of things. Perhaps a raise is long overdue for his hardworking agent.

"Scotland Yard has been called in, as requested," Smith continued in the same breath—he was running out of time, as they were almost to the front door; Mycroft could detect the gleaming of the golden numbers from where he stood. "Detective Inspector Lestrade is bringing in a clean-up crew and an ambulance as well, but they were—er—warned not to touch 221B."

"Very well, Agent Smith," Mycroft said airily, "yes, thank you. Send up Eliza—"

"Snooki, sir," Smith interjected instantly. "She's naming herself after American Reality Television stars this month, sir."

Mycroft's eye twitched in a show of distaste. "Hmm, yes, how… admirable," he said dryly, hooking his umbrella over his forearm so he could carefully open the door (who knows how badly it had been hit?). To his relief, the door opened smoothly and he stepped over the threshold, not certain if he enjoyed the lack of his brother's voice. Mycroft looked over his shoulder and said, "Send up Eliza once she arrives, as well as Dr. Hamilton. Get someone to tend to Mrs. Hudson, Agent Smith. I shall not like to be interrupted."

Smith nodded and backed away, stepping into the half-flickering light as his thumbs brushed over the keys on his smart phone. Mycroft closed the door behind him and climbed up the steep, narrow staircase (Sherlock chose this flat just to peeve Mycroft, or to discourage him from visiting, he knew it, for the staircase always caused Mycroft to be slightly out of breath) with precise, measured steps, his umbrella tapping every other stair.

Shouts sounded down from where Mycroft paused on the landing and sighed. There was nothing to be done about it now; best leave it to the professionals to abstract the gun and calm down the good doctor. Legwork. Not his area.

Hooking his umbrella upon his arm, Mycroft pushed open the door with a slender hand, standing before the scene of his little brother's destroyed living room and sighed. The windows were completely blown in, glass littering the floor with variety: from the size of the tip of a needle to largish shards the size of his hand. The beige drapes were shredded; little holes had ripped through the fabric, and the light breeze of the night let it flutter hesitantly over the covered floor. Only the barely visible rays from the moon lit his way, and with it Mycroft could deter an unmoving lump on the ground.

Mycroft flipped the switch and strolled in, flooding the semi-destroyed flat with light. The soles of his shoes crunched the glass underneath his deliberate steps, and he crouched down by his unconscious brother, who lied face-down on the faded rug, his arms up by his ears while his undernourished body made a straight line from the shared table to the middle of the floor. Glass beads clung to his dark curls and lied innocently on his suit jacket. Tenderly (though he would personally shoot anyone who dared comment), Mycroft brushed the glass from his brother's back and lifted a curl from his pale face.

The nostrils flared ever-so-slightly, and Mycroft felt the cool touch of Sherlock's comatose exhale with the close distance of his fingers. Tension rolled off Mycroft's shoulders and disappeared as he straightened, his knees cracking from their prolonged bent position. His brother was alive and did not have even the barest of scratches on him.

Quick, short clicks behind him told Mycroft that Eliza had entered his brother's Baker Street address, no doubt texting endlessly on her phone. Reluctantly, he moved his eyes from the prone form of his brother to look at his admittedly attractive assistant, who was now staring at him with attentive hazel eyes.

"Call in a few reinforcements," he said curtly, and she nodded, looking down at her phone, her thumbs roving rapidly over the tiny keys. "Make sure they are—ah—cautious. They'll need to wake Dr. Watson, who is currently trapped in a Post-Traumatic nightmare. Tell them not to make any sudden movements or loud noises—Dr. Watson sleeps with a gun underneath his pillow and it would be most… taxing should one of our employees become… indisposed."

A blink was the only show of her surprise and she turned away, carefully taking the narrow steps of Sherlock's flat to the front door, waiting by the decrepit hat stand with a straight back and locked knees.

Not moments later did the door open and the quiet, efficient steps of large boulders of men sounded up the steps, and Mycroft leaned against the door jam as they passed, accepting their nods of respect with an upwards tilt of his chin. As they carefully ascended the staircase leading to John's room, a slower, heavier walk followed, and Mycroft stopped his inspection of his pocket watch to see an elderly man with smartly cropped silvery hair and wrinkles about intelligent blue eyes trek up to the living room, where he was no doubt alerted by Eliza Sherlock would be, a suitcase clutched in one hand.

As if detecting Mycroft's stare, Dr. Hamilton looked up, the serious expression never leaving his face. He shook his head and said in his gruff voice, "I'm getting too old for this, Mycroft."

"Now, Dr. Hamilton," Mycroft said, "You're the only doctor who could ever handle my little brother."

Dr. Hamilton coughed into his fist. "He's gotten worse." He then rose after the last step and was now level with Mycroft, his height only a few inches shorter than Mycroft and his shoulders stooped with responsibility and age. "And he was a terror as a child."

Mycroft smiled, though he felt no relief. "Luckily for you, my brother's still unconscious. Check him over for me, will you? And then his friend, if you wouldn't mind."

Dr. Hamilton, who had been busying himself with the contents of his briefcase, stilled and looked over his shoulder, cocking a silver eyebrow. "Friend?"

"I never thought I would see the day," Mycroft agreed, stepping around the glass and shaken objects around the rust-red rug to the high-backed chair nearest to the fire he had often seen, from the hidden camera in the mantle neither Sherlock nor John had found, that this was Dr. Watson's usual chair. Gingerly, he removed the Union Jack pillow before he sat himself in it, crossing his leg and placing his umbrella nose down onto the floor by his feet. From his comforted position he watched as Dr. Hamilton draped the thick cord of a stethoscope around his neck, pulled on a pair of white rubber gloves, and unbuttoned his jacked so he could crouch next to an unconscious Sherlock, his shiny shoes crunching the glass underneath his soles. Mycroft refused to grit his teeth when the man grinded the glass unknowingly into the floor—it grated against his ears. Dr. Hamilton lifted Sherlock's eyelids to see pearl-like orbs, only a sliver of pale grey iris visible, crescent-like and sickly. Tutting to himself, the doctor removed the stethoscope from around his neck, plugging rubbery buds into his ears and placing the circular nozzle against the smooth curve of Sherlock's back, removing it a few times only to place it in another area.

Steps quickened down from John's room, and Mycroft turned to see one of his faceless agents—Agent Jones—stop at the door, averting his eyes rightfully from the scene of Sherlock being doctored, focusing solely on Mycroft as he spoke, "Dr. Watson has been detained, sir."

"Condition?" Mycroft asked, ignoring Dr. Hamilton's perked ears. He couldn't stop the man from being curious; he had known Sherlock almost as long as Mycroft had, it was only natural he wanted information on the man that had managed to befriend the self-proclaimed sociopath.

"Angry, sir," Agent Jones reported, and if Mycroft was mistaken (and he never was), a thin droplet of sweat streaked from the agent's hairline to his temple. Ah, was he nervous? Interesting. "He wishes to know what is happening, sir."

"And?" Mycroft prompted.

"We told him to wait until he was cleared by the doctor, sir." Agent Jones licked his lips. His pinky finger twitched. "He was… displeased."

"I imagine so," Mycroft said, looking unconcernedly down the line of his umbrella, twirling it to watch its shadow shift along the glittering glass embedded in the floor. He glanced over to the space where his brother lay sprawled to see Dr. Hamilton's forefinger and middle finger together and pressed against Sherlock's alabaster neck. He looked back to his agent, who was still standing at the threshold of the door as if waiting to be invited in. This was unusual, especially with his more practiced servicemen. Mycroft raised a gingery eyebrow. "Well?"

The pinky on the agent's right hand twitched again. "Dr. Watson also had a message for you, sir, but it's perhaps best if I don't repeat it."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows again, and the agent visibly paled.

"N-Not that _I _think it best—it's a bit—er—vulgar," Agent Jones stumbled, his eyes widening and his lip trembling ever-so-slightly in fear. It was almost amusing how he inspired fear within his workers without trying. "Dr. Watson said, 'tell Mycroft to shove his umbrella up his omnipotent ass and that I'm my own doctor.'"

"Ah," Mycroft said, winning a battle against the amusement the good doctor had unwittingly created, pushing the threatening twitch of his lip muscle to just a quiver of his toe—an unnoticeable tell, especially since he wore closed-toe shoes all the time. It would not do to lose such control in front of his subordinates. Though John Watson was amusing sometimes; he was perhaps the first man since his days in university who dared insult him thus, and it was a welcome, if a bit shocking difference from the brown-nosing he was much used to. "Thank you, Jones. You may return to your post."

Agent Jones nodded, a nervous tick in his eyebrow, before turning on his heel and returning to the upstairs bedroom. Mycroft could hear John's irritated arguments before the door shut, muffling them into nonexistence.

There was a breathy chuckle from behind him, and when Mycroft turned to assess the noise, Dr. Hamilton hastily coughed into his fist, masking the laughter altogether. When Mycroft stared at the man, Dr. Hamilton straightened and pulled off his rubber gloves with a snap before stuffing them into his pocket.

"I like this friend of his already," Dr. Hamilton said, straightening and buttoning his open suit jacket. Mycroft waited patiently for the diagnosis, both hands resting on the handle of his umbrella as the nose dug itself into the carpet. Dr. Hamilton slung the stethoscope around his neck once more and allowed a wry grin to claim his weathered face.

"Your brother will be fine," Dr. Hamilton began, "I suspect a mild concussion, but it will be much easier to determine once he's awake," (here he muttered something under his breath, and Mycroft rolled his eyes as he realized the man was insulting Sherlock) "Shall I tend to this Dr. Watson while we wait?"

Mycroft nodded and with that the doctor shuffled by, making his slow trek upstairs to John's bedroom, where John was with no doubt being restrained by a few agents at least. It was a good thing Dr. Watson was tired, Mycroft mused as he glanced around his brother's haphazard living room (the neon yellow smiley face was a new addition… Mycroft wasn't so sure what to make of that), or he would have been giving his workers a hard time.

Sherlock groaned from his position on the floor and Mycroft immediately switched his attention from the inspection of Sherlock's living room to his brother, who was grinding his face groggily into the floor as consciousness returned his senses. Stoically he watched as Sherlock then placed his hands to the back of his head, entwining his long fingers into his curls, lifting his head once to ram it into the floor. This action was most… peculiar.

But then again, it was Sherlock. He had always been peculiar.

"John," was the first sound uttered from Sherlock's throat, sounding, if Mycroft didn't know any better, concerned. Sherlock then splayed his fingers against the carpet, coming in contact with beads of glass of which he paid no attention to. "John?" his voice, though slurred slightly, was louder, and Sherlock made to get to his feet.

"He's fine," Mycroft said, and Sherlock stilled, fingers splayed by his sides, elbows pointed toward the ceiling. "Interesting, isn't it? The first thing you do in a stressful situation is inquire after another's safety." Mycroft let a knowing smirk, an expression he knew annoyed Sherlock to no end, slide onto his features when his brother lifted his head to send Mycroft a glare of hatred. Mycroft's smirk grew more leering as Sherlock's glare intensified. "Not something a sociopath would do, certainly."

"Ah, Mycroft, civil duty must be so boring; you gained at least six pounds since I've last seen you," Sherlock said scathingly, pushing himself startlingly quickly to his feet. He swayed slightly but he powered through it to step passed Mycroft, who was blocking the way to Sherlock's kitchen and bedroom. Mycroft, however, held out his umbrella, obscuring the way more effectively. Sherlock growled but knew better than to sabotage the brolly.

"Dr. Hamilton wishes to examine you again now that you are awake," Mycroft said, relishing in how Sherlock seethed and clenched his fists at the word 'again.' It was very satisfying, and when Sherlock merely glared stonily ahead, Mycroft smiled farsely once more. "I believe he's almost finished with John."

Something flashed too quickly in Sherlock's pale eyes, and Mycroft then realized Sherlock hadn't noticed it, either. It was stunning, this realization, and Mycroft was a bit saddened by it, to know his brother hadn't yet noticed he had a friend in John Watson. With this weighing in his gut, Mycroft lessened up on his cruelly teasing demeanor.

"Dr. Watson," he began, almost hesitantly, but was immediately interrupted.

"Did I ask you?" Sherlock snarled, and Mycroft instantly brought the tip of the umbrella to his insufferable brother's pale neck like a sword. Sherlock stilled again, and Mycroft catalogued Sherlock's aggressive stance, reminiscent of the time not so long ago when Sherlock was entirely angles and whose clothes hanged off him as ill-fitting rags, defensive, shoulders forward, long hands clenched, eyebrows meeting in an angry furrow, eyes slitted, looking down the end of his nose. It was the stance Sherlock took whenever he was hiding something.

Any sympathy he felt for his brother wafted away with this new evidence, and Mycroft narrowed his eyes, searching his brother once more as Sherlock straightened his spine, aligned his shoulders, and lifted his chin haughtily. The pale hands loosened and hanged without a threat by his sides.

"What have you been doing, Sherlock?" he murmured darkly, moving the tip of the umbrella from the side of Sherlock's neck to just under the left side of his jaw, never touching, but close enough for Sherlock to tilt his head slightly to avoid it. Mycroft knew he would never get a straight answer from his brother, but it was hint enough for Mycroft to want to increase his already hefty surveillance status.

Sherlock huffed through his nose. "I. Am. Clean."

"Are you?" he asked, though he could see it in his brother's eyes. Sherlock hadn't touched anything for at least six months. If not that… then what did Sherlock believe needed to be hidden from him?

Someone cleared his throat, and Mycroft and Sherlock simultaneously snapped their attention to the creator of the rude noise, who was the slouched, wrinkly figure with the black briefcase and the kind blue eyes. Instantly, Mycroft dropped his assertive position to his brother and dug the nose of the umbrella into the floor, giving Dr. Hamilton his undivided attention, acting as if he and his brother hadn't been fighting.

"I see Mr. Holmes the Younger has returned to us," the doctor remarked dryly, shifting his suitcase from one hand to the other before mumbling, "with all his infamous charm and discretion intact."

Sherlock huffed from beside Mycroft like a ruffled bird.

Dr. Hamilton lifted his unhampered wrist to check the tarnished watch at his wrist (_gift from a grandfather—his favorite, must have been—the model was at least thirty-five years old_) and coughed, rubbing the tip of his nose with his knuckles. "It seems Sherlock has not suffered from brain damage… though his friend might want to be checked out."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said quietly. If Mycroft wasn't mistaken, he would say his brother sounded _angry_ on Dr. Watson's behalf.

"Does he have a therapist?" Dr. Hamilton asked, looking up as he secured the last button on his jacket.

"She was incompetent," Sherlock supplied, sounding almost proud.

But there was something in the man's tone Sherlock had missed. "Why?" Mycroft asked in his steed, tapping the umbrella on his right shoe.

Dr. Hamilton cleared his throat and switched the suitcase to the other hand once more. "The file you had handed to me on Dr. Watson was most informative." He stared up at Mycroft, avoiding Sherlock's gaze altogether. "There is a reason Dr. Watson was able to return directly to duty after his mishap, a reason he would still be able to function. Good-day, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Holmes." With a last nod, he turned on his heel and exited the flat with his slow and steady turtle-like steps.

There was not even a moment of thick, tense silence before uneven steps thundered down the stairs from John's bedroom, irate and impatient. Mycroft looked to the door expectantly as John entered the room, clenching his fists freely by his side and breathing heavily through his nose. His back was straight as an arrow, his shoulders shifted back, and his jaw set, working against the obvious need to shout. Sharp triangular shadows underneath his neck and at the more recent, more subtle protrusion of his cheekbones gave way that the man, despite his ingrained military habits enforced by doctorly deeds to eat and exercise regularly, was losing weight instead of gaining it. Mycroft, being the resourceful man he was, had examined photos of John pre-college and pre-Afghanistan, and he noted that the man's features were sharper than they had ever been, more angular as opposed to the soft lines and wide eyes of the young man John Watson used to be. Now, John Watson's deep blue eyes were knowledgeable, alert, and whenever bored or without something to focus on, old, with permanent bags underneath.

However, it was the appearance of broken capillaries snaking their way to John's corneas and the grayish pallor of the man's face that alerted Mycroft with striking mental alarm bells that John was starting to remember, and those returned memories weren't allowing him to sleep at night.

Dr. Hamilton must have noticed this as well, and Mycroft was vaguely surprised that John wasn't sedated and strapped to a bed (_ah, but there in the crook of his arm and the side of his neck: thin scratches, not deep enough to hit the bloodstream. John had narrowly avoided such a fate, and Mycroft curiously wondered how he had done so. If he remembered correctly, Dr. Hamilton was very persistent_).

John looked about the room once more, eyeing the shards of glass and fluttering drapes without concern before turning his angry stare in direction of the Holmes boys. "What the _fuck_ is going on?" he started furiously, his lip twitching uncharacteristically into a snarl. John scanned Sherlock with a clinical eye and nodded to himself (seemingly unaware of his actions… how fascinating) before turning a glare on Mycroft, stalking closer until he was toe to toe with the government official, his stance making him seem much taller. His blue eyes darkened as his lips tightened over his teeth. "I wake up to find my room _swarming _with government agents, speaking into their watches and emptying _my _shit out of my _fucking _drawers. At least four of them were holding me down, explaining that a flat complex had mysteriously _exploded_." John gritted his teeth, elevating to the balls of his feet once, reminding Mycroft instantly of a snarling dog raising his hackles. "Answer me this, Mycroft: how in the _fucking hell _was that supposed to calm me down?"

Mycroft could sense his brother offering a proud, closed mouth smile, generated solely for the purpose of irritating him and approving of Dr. Watson's anger. Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek, struggling not to insult his little brother's only friend or to insist that his agents did not speak into their watches. It was a most nineties thing to do.

(And, perhaps, look back and see maybe this course of action was not the best… not that anyone needed to know that).

John continued in his furious half-shout, a whispered bark that would have sent lesser men than Mycroft Holmes quaking in their boots, "And then some old bootlicker calling himself a doctor comes in, not only telling me what I already know, but having the gall to explain that my flat mate was unconscious while trying to stick a needle into any vein he could reach."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "He was trying to sedate you."

"No shit." A false smile matched the incredulous snort John emitted, his eyes black and his expression hard.

"It is obvious that your night terrors have frightened you from sleep," Mycroft explained, examining the manicured nails on his right hand, knowing exactly the affect he was having on John. He could feel the anger seeping off the man in tense waves of heat. "The memories you have repressed are coming forth once again, and Dr. Hamilton believed it would be best to reset your body…"

"What the_ fuck!"_ John interrupted, his voice cracking as it hit a note an octave higher than its usual range. He looked to Sherlock with an expression as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing before attuning his attention back to Mycroft in exasperation and rage. "Are you completely deranged? You can't just—it's not—for fuck's sake!"

"A bit not good, Mycroft," Sherlock reprimanded, and Mycroft turned to see Sherlock's face pinched and containing something he had difficulty explaining (it could have been wounded…. But it could have also been a morbid curiosity). Sherlock then seemed to gain height, as if it would increase his importance. "Leave," Sherlock commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

This amused Mycroft, and he smiled with derision as he looked down his nose at his little brother. He didn't feel the need to grace Sherlock and John's requests with an answer, and instead sent a swift text to his clean-up crew to enter the building. His smile widened as he cruelly watched his men trample through the flat, enjoying the angrily shocked looks on both his brother and the good doctor's faces. Mycroft looked down to the sharp tip of his umbrella and lifted it slightly as he took his deliberate steps toward the now clear doorway, smirking as Sherlock's deep voice hollered at the men in white scrubs and rubber gloves not to touch anything and to not ruin his organization system (and a surprisingly panicked order not to touch his socks).

He wiped his face clean of the pleasure he gained from thoroughly irritating his little brother as Eliza came into his view, and if she noticed anything different about his demeanor, she was wise not to mention it. She followed him out of 221 Baker Street, the buttons on her mobile clicking rapidly with the speed of her commands.

Though Mycroft would be back later in the morning to check on his brother and—ah—force the consulting detective to do his legwork for him, he felt fully accomplished. His work there was done.


End file.
